The Brilliance of What If
by Souvenir
Summary: Light Yagami, renowned mystery novelist and egotist extraordinaire, gets the shock of a lifetime after he is challenged by a unique highschool student. Summary will be longer as plot is revealed.
1. Chapter 1

**a/n: I have no part in the ownership of Death Note... anyway, this is a fanfic about Light as a renowned mystery novelist. He goes to speak at a high school, a high school attended by a very odd person. Please give it a chance, and tell me what you think!**

* * *

The young author mused as he read the letter again.

"_How do you feel about the success of your new book, Mr. Yagami?"_

"_Do you think it surpasses your first novel?"_

"_What do you have to say to your fans?"_

_In the midst of the cameras, Light Yagami smiled gently, pausing to tuck a stray lock of hair behind his ear. _

"_I think it's wonderful to have another best seller---my head is spinning. Quite frankly, I'm still in shock that At Midnight was actually published; and of course I appreciate anybody who has bothered to read either of my attempts at mystery…"_

Yagami Light sat at his desk, watching the tape of his press conference from two years ago. The mahogany desk was littered with papers; remnants of pieces of ideas. Pens lay scattered and the drawers hung open, looking at the floor dejectedly.

A dog eared copy of _At Midnight _lay open in front of him. Beside it was its twin in used condition--- _The Corpse lay under the Apple tree. _

The first had taken him two weeks to formulate, and in two feverish months he'd been knocking on the publisher's door, manuscript clutched in hand. It was published and was soon in the mainstream world of popular fiction--- at seventeen his name was in Time and Business Week and being quoted on television.

His second novel came to him one day on the train, and it was the same sensation of sitting down and writing furiously for hours on end. This time the characters were sharper, rather than fresh, and his plot was less definite.

"_What made you so interested in mystery, and what led you to write this at such a young age?"_

Glaring at himself, Light shut the tape off in agitation. He drummed his fingers on the desk.

He was the leading voice in fiction at the tender age of seventeen. For a year, and then another, people over the world waited patiently for a new book to come. He did not write the idea that he had. It just wasn't good enough. They would publish it, yes, and it would be good---but it would not be great.

He was nineteen and, he feared, past his prime.

It was very depressing.

Light finally returned his attention to the invitation he'd received via e-mail: a request to go and speak for a day to an entire auditorium of high school students. Apparently, some devoted teacher had forced all his classes to read one of his books.

He shook his head---being forced to read things in school was part of what seized him to write something else. He felt halfway as if his noble purpose was being tarnished by the man's assignment.

The useless scrawls and the scraps of paper stared up at him. He shoved them away, looking at the bright screen of the laptop they'd been concealing. The date was over a month ago, and the scheduled day was tomorrow.

He shrugged. It wasn't like it could do him any harm.

_Mr. Watari, _

_I thank you for your invitation and accept. I hope my reply is not too late. _

_Sincerely_

_Light Yagami_

There. That should do it.

Light stretched, shoving himself away from the desk (where he spent most of his days and some of his nights) to climb the stairs to his small but comfortably furnished bedroom.

With the money he'd gotten from his bestsellers, he'd bought himself the quaint apartment in London.

He didn't have much to say about the choice, only that his parents and younger sister were stifling. Pressuring him to write the not-great book that was in his head.

Light turned off the lamp with its oriental shade. Flinging the covers aside; he mentally shrugged. Both times inspiration had hit him, he'd been shocked and surprised. It was sudden and could be triggered by literally anything.

Maybe his next book would come to him in his dream.

With that thought to comfort him, the young man drifted off to sleep.

* * *

The boy threw off his comforter in anger.

He brushed his teeth in anger.

He dragged the artful shirt across his torso in anger.

Most things he did were in anger; it was something he both knew and relished unconsciously. To the rest of the world, he was just one more teenager with a fixed scowl and matching glare.

On the school bus, eyes clamped shut and trying to block out the meaningless chatter of his classmates, he felt someone tap his shoulder.

"Hey---you---you got Watari, right? You read those books that were assigned?"

The angry boy opened one baleful eye. It fell upon the other boy's copy of some book.

"….no."

He raised an eyebrow and pointed at the book. The other boy shrugged, "If you think you can read it before fifth period, be my guest."

He took the book, scanned the title and author:

_At Midnight by Yagami Light. _

He had forty five minutes left on the bus. Then there were ten minutes before first period. Five minutes between classes.

Seventy five minutes? For a three hundred page book?

He laughed. No way, that was impossible. Maybe some really smart kid, an honors student, could do that.

He started reading anyway.

* * *

It was five in the morning, and Light flipped through a couple "motivational speaking" books over a light breakfast of bread and black coffee.

What did he know about speaking to high school students? He'd gone to school in Japan, and been isolated there. But students here were less motivated, weren't they? They didn't take exams to get into high school, didn't go to cram school…

And these books weren't helping, Light acknowledged, and tossed them carelessly over his shoulder.

Maybe he should just try to talk naturally. He laughed. Him, talk naturally to another human being? No one he knew could keep up with his vocabulary and reasoning. He would leap from points A to Z and not a soul would understand.

It was this ability that helped him surprise readers, really. Leaping from A to Z. He liked the sound of that in his head, and scribbled it in the notebook of ideas he carried everywhere with him.

The notebook was black and very dear to him. The first plot sketches for both his novels graced its pages….

Something akin to sorrow washed over Light's skin as he thought of his works. He twisted his mouth in a savage smile, a startling contrast from the gentle curve he showed the public. The mystery novels, what were they really? He had no idea.

Light could only guess that they were the result of his intellectual frustration. There had been a time, back in Japan, when he was frightfully bored with life. It was a very dark time for him. The books….being struck by an idea, and having life flow from his brainchild through his mortal fingers into the realm of literature---that had saved him.

But after not writing for so long, Light could feel the boredom coming back.

It was terrifying.

* * *

**a/n: I hope you enjoyed it! Once again, please review! (And check out my DN oneshot, if you'd like.) **


	2. Chapter 2

**a/n: I do not own death note. I am not smart enough to have any part in such things...**

**Anyway, welcome to the second (and long, by my standards) chapter of The Brilliance of What If. ****Reviews at this point will be very much appreciated, since I'm really unsure about myself at this point.**

**So if you have a question, comment, or concern, _please _let me know! **

* * *

"So, the auditorium is just down that hallway and to the right?"

"Yes sir—and might I add, it's a pleasure to meet you. While back you were always on the television and whatnought--- my wife's a big fan of yours."

Light smiled at the principal before striding down the hallway with distaste. The lockers loomed to either side like silent sentinels, and the dreary floor tiles reminded him of a prison.

In stark contrast the bright white fluorescent lights obliterated all shadows, and made him see spots.

What a lovely combination, he thought to himself. Let's depress the students and then blind them for good measure. That will make them less surly in the classroom. It's a wonderful innova—

"Oompf---!"

Light didn't get a good look at the kid's face before he walked right into him, and indeed, the boy kept his eyes lowered, picking up his binder and paper and books which had hit the tiles with a sharp crack.

Light peered down in curiousity at the tousled head. He should have noticed Light was right in front of him, even if Light hadn't seen him coming…the author's eyes fell upon the open book in his hand and lit up in recognition.

He'd been reading while walking in the hallway---it was something Light had done in school as well, though it did pose certain obvious dangers if one got too wrapped up.

"Here, let me help you. What are you reading that's so interesting you're not watching where you're going?"

Light looked at the title and smiled. It was none other than a copy of _At Midnight_. The boy had his finger on the third to last page---that meant he had just found out who the killer had been. No wonder he was wrapped up. At his age, he would have been too shocked to see straight.

"Don't bother. I've got it. It's interesting, all right…don't know why the teacher assigned such a crappy book."

The student finally stood up and Light looked at him through slitted eyes.

He was shorter than Light but had the same slender build, probably lighter than himself. Clad in tight dark blue jeans and a tank top sweater combination, leaning to one side with his slim hand loosely holding Light's masterpiece at his hip, Light could only think he was dressed like many students dressed---his artsy flair was fashionable rather than original; lending to him a sense of the artificial. He was fake. He was plaster, and he was transparent.

After staring at the author for a second, he pushed past him and disappeared down another hallway.

Light stood for a minute. He was mildly furious but mostly perplexed. Most of the time, his novels held special appeal to young adults, since Light tended to write protagonists as young and brilliant in unconventional ways.

Of course, if the youth in question was not intelligent enough to grasp the subject matter, let alone appreciate the subtleties and the grace…

Yes, that was the reason. The boy wasn't competent in a literary sense.

By the time Light strode through the back door of the auditorium, he'd convinced himself to forget all about the encounter.

* * *

People pointed at the speed with which the boy turned pages, and whispered to their friends:

"Who is that boy?"

"Is he in your class?"

"He's gotta be in honors, what's he doing in here?"

The boy in question vaguely heard their loud musings, which were proof that he was a chameleon in this environment, blending in with a sea of others who dressed, spoke, and acted just like him. They didn't even know his name, for heaven's sake. So how could they expect to know his intelligence?

People were so easy to fool.

Of course, it had been a while, hadn't it?

A while since the snow, white and blinding and smothering, had stopped falling in his head. The last time it happened, it had been too much, and he'd switched the screen back on. Fell back into the cavern that dulled his thoughts.

But the book changed the atmosphere. It was a torch thrown against the solid rock walls, warming his blue (a miracle all ten were there) fingers. It felt good for right now. But he made sure the snow was falling softly, lest it started burning.

And after a while, he was always burned.

He didn't dwell on this and instead kept his features calm. There was something strange going on in this book. He supposed it was well written (he didn't really read books so he had very little but instinct to go on) and the characters each had several dimensions, but… something was wrong.

Two periods later (80 more pages read) (and the clouds, they were buzzing with excitement rather than raging in frustration) and it struck him as he stalked towards the auditorium. He had five more pages, two more minutes. The lead character, the twenty year old man who'd found the gun, declared the murderer.

The boy imagined all the other people who read this bit being knocked off their silly simple feet in amazement. He saw their thought process: "Edward killed Alice? _Edward?_ Impossible!"

The character continues, and the person thinks: "Oh my God, that's brilliant. That's brilliant. It's just plausible enough to be believable…yes, Edward did kill Alice."

And then they close their book and run over it again in their minds, this time keeping in mind that Edward was the killer.

But they're _wro_---

The force of his collision with the stranger knocked his school things out of his hands.

The stranger had an elegant, intelligent face, and eyes that didn't match the smile he offered in apology. The boy kept his face down to cover his unease at that. If the snow was falling it wouldn't be a problem, because he wouldn't have picked up on the stranger's body language, on the slightest change of expression. Sight was a dangerous thing.

"Here, let me help you." He heard the voice above him as he bent down. "What are you reading that's so interesting you're not watching where you're going?"

_Tch. What a polite way to tell me it was my fault. _

"Don't bother." _Why would you? _"I've got it. It's interesting, all right…don't know why the teacher assigned such a crappy book."

As soon as he said the words, he felt something distinctly close to menace emanate from the stranger (was he a senior?) and decided to take his leave. He took the long way to the auditorium, figuring a seat in the back of the assembly would be best anyway.

He had to admit---the last three pages were beautifully written. The entire book, actually. The writing style was crisp and new and had real substance to it. And how old had the author been? Seventeen? The boy turned to the back cover, where there was a short biography and a picture of---

The author.

He snuck in through a side door, easing his way to an empty seat---the entire student body was there, paying rapt attention to the young man who addressed them from the podium.

It was the same young man who'd bumped into him. He couldn't have told it from his eyes, eyes that reflected his own personal winter. Only that voice was the same.

"It was quite a challenge, getting started….talking to a publishing company was intimidating."

He looked good under those lights, the boy had to admit. This guy had a face that people liked. He seemed to be earnest and truthful and perfectly innocent as he spoke.

"I found that, though education is very important, one must focus their energies into more than just their studies. I think society underestimates young people far too much. And, honestly, young people don't always prove them wrong. So---be productive in your community. Find your own ambition….and trust it. For me, this meant spending nights writing and writing."

The audience was breathless, entranced by this author. Girls whispered whenever he took a breath. Even the teachers seemed interested, standing as they did along the walls of the room, keeping an eye on the students.

The boy didn't believe a word of it.

"As for a synopsis of my books…well, I'm very flattered you've all read one. I just hope everyone understood. Some people just don't get it the first time around…."

He froze. Yagami---that was his name--- was catching his eye. Catching his eye as he spoke of people _slower _than average.

"I mean, upon reading that Edward had done away with Alice--"

The boy cleared his throat.

"Edward didn't kill Alice," he muttered.

The student beside him glanced at him and then away.

"Edward didn't kill Alice." This time he was louder, and the people in his row frowned and shushed him.

"_EDWARD DIDN'T KILL ALICE, YOU IDIOTS!"_

* * *

Giving the speech was even easier than he'd thought it would be. The students were like sheep---they stared up at him with eyes like dinner plates, hanging onto every word he said. If he didn't know better he'd swear they were hypnotized.

And so the words left his tongue, sugar coated words to bolster self esteem, to encourage, to nurture.

Light meant every word, and every word seemed to blister on his lips. He knew that there was something very wrong with that, but didn't care to examine it too closely.

He settled into a rhythm, staring at segments of the audience in a lazy but focused rotation. Eventually he caught a glimpse of that kid---the hollow one. He was in the back of the room. A single cliché seated between two other cliches. Light smiled inwardly, adding a chiding tone to his voice before launching into the beginning of a memorized analysis of his work. (He'd been to countless book discussions, all infinitely more stressful and intimidating than this room of dazed students.)

Suffice it to say, he was certainly not expecting the four words that suddenly skittered over the rows to reach his sensitive ears.

And then it was Yagami Light's turn to freeze.

He took it well, considering he was defending a verbal attack during his own assembly, choosing to wave away the teachers who were cornering the boy and instead answering him directly from the stage.

"You've read the book….right?"

This was the way to do it. Disarm the kid. Teenagers were all adrenaline. If you took that away, they were nothing. Light ignored the fact, for the moment, that he was also still a teenager.

Laughs came from the audience. The atmosphere, which had been tense and strained, lightened.

"The night that Alice was to go dancing, she stands at the balcony for a moment to gather her thoughts. Edward, who was in the garden, sees her. He has a clean shot with the pistol, and the noise from the party covers it and remains his alibi since he goes back in through the french doors just in time to greet Alice's cousin Christine. He has of course wiped the pistol clean and thrown it into the antique armory, where there are several dozen like it."

Light explained slowly, each word clear and, in a low key way, clipped.

The boy laughed.

"Well, yes, I suppose that would work. But it doesn't happen that way. You see, _Edward _didn't kill Alice, because _Edward _didn't set a foot in that garden."

"God, shut up!" A particularly fervent student shouted.

The boy blinked, caught a glimpse of the pale author. He was gripping the podium so hard his knuckles were white, but his face was completely composed.

And then, amazingly, he lifted a hand, silencing the murmuring crowd.

"Okay. Let's assume Edward didn't kill Alice. Who then do you suggest is the murderer?"

The boy hesitated. It still wasn't too late to welcome the snow, to make himself blind again. The cavern was a ring of flames.

"It was Bernard. Bernard did it. He was misguided. But he was the worst of them all. I could hear it….in his words."

Light laughed. It was the only thing he could do, in public as he was.

"Bernard….. is the protagonist. He's the only character in the book that isn't consumed with greed or obsessed with ideas of revenge. All _he_ wants is for the world to be a better place."

He could smell paper burning. The flames were too high now. They started to melt the ice that still gathered on his eyelashes.

Instead of listening for another moment, Light motioned to one of the teachers. The boy was escorted out of the auditorium, and he hurriedly brought the discussion to a close, barely talking about his second novel.

Bernard. The murderer? Why on earth would someone think that? Of course, Light knew his books inside and out. They were his, for god's sake.

"It's insane," Light muttered as he walked down the tree lined street to his apartment.

But like before, his words blistered.

* * *

"We've never had problems like this with you before, Mello. Your aunt and uncle have never mentioned the slightest behavioral issue….you're passing your classes and you try your best at assignments. We really can't understand your outburst. Are you feeling okay? We could call the nurse…"

Mello looked at the principal through even blue eyes. He felt electrified. Alive. He shook his head sharply, his blond hair tickling his cheeks. The motion swept away the rest of the snow.

"I'm awake," He said simply, and walked out of the office and through the school doors.

He would never walk through them again.

* * *

_You're so smart…_

"_You really think I'm smart? I…I don't know what to say, you're the genius around here, right?" _

_I can hardly believe your test scores. You got a perfect. You should be proud of yourself. _

_Bliss. Being smart was that. It was floating on clouds. A honeyed voice in your ear. _

"_A perfect? Really, me?"_

_You cheated, didn't you? Just admit it, son, it will be better if you admit it now…and on your best friend, too. Atleast admit it for his sake. _

"_I didn't cheat. I'm smart. I can do just as well as he can, why won't you believe me?"_

_You're no genius! If you think you're on __his__ level, then maybe you're not smart at all. Do us a favor, Mello! Prove us wrong. Push yourself. _

"_You'll never manipulate me again, you bastards."_

It was more than a slight, really. Honor was called into question and his ego (fragile as an ice crystal) was shattered. He knew that to be smart was to invite them to screw with his head again, playing the one off the other in the hopes of resulting in something brilliant.

And then the snow began to fall.

Mello shuddered. He was starting to feel proud of himself---he'd had the mental dexterity to close off his own intelligence. He'd left no clue in his memory, and still he had puzzled it together. A highly condensed summary, true, but he had the gist of what had happened.

He wasn't going to think about the fact that this had happened before, only for him to retreat once more into the smothering snow.

He wasn't going to think about how borderline insane that behavior was.

And he definitely wasn't going to think about how funny the word "borderline" was in that sentence.

* * *

Yagami Light sat on his expensive but tasteful leather chair in front of the imposing desk. His eyes were bloodshot as he read the novel over and over again, searching in the room's dim light.

It was five hours later, just as he was ready to throw the book into his faux marble fireplace, when the door bell sounded softly.

He got up, stretching stiffly, and found himself to be soon staring into the eyes of the usurper himself. One of them was blackening fast into a ring of deep violet. Light didn't ask the obvious question, what's wrong with your eye? Or even the more obvious one of, why are you here?

No. He waited for him to speak, fixing him with a look that had been known to send college professors into hiding.

"My name's Mello."

"Ok. Mello. How did you know?"

"It was obvious."

* * *

**a/n: I do have some things to say in explanation...the parts that deal with Mello (betcha thought he was L, didn't ya?) are going to be disjointed by nature, because in my perception a great deal of Mello's character is disjointed! (my oneshot helps a little to explain this, by the way.) If I didn't explain it well enough, what Mello did was supress his own intelligence and his memory of that intelligence. He's capable of incredible psychological feats. **

**And if Light seems ooc to you...remember that he is always a different person in public, and this fic is AU. (In answer to the question of someone who left a very lovely review...it was much appreciated! ) **

**Well, I really hope you enjoyed it, and once again, please review...I realize this chapter was awkward... ( was it awkward?)...**


	3. Chapter 3

**a/n: Hello, and welcome to the third installment of The Brilliance of What If. **

**This chapter gave me an incredible headache--I've come to the conclusion that to write Death Note fanfiction----and I absolutely do not own Death Note, to get that out of the way---one has to put a great deal of thought in their work. **

**So, I tried my best... once again, if you have anything to say, comments, or suggestions, then please leave a review. Thanks, and I hope you enjoy the chapter. **

* * *

"It was obvious."

"Obvious, you say."

"It was almost as obvious as the fact that you _knew _Bernard was the killer."

A slow smile spread across Light's face, which encouraged Mello to continue. Not that Mello needed encouraging, after all---his rising intelligence was bringing forth a personality he'd forgotten, but one that matched his mind precisely. Mello was not a timid person.

"Which is far more impressive than the conclusion that Edward was not the murderer. I mean, if he was, then your novel would still be great. People don't understand that the reason they're drawn to it is because there's a whole other level they're not comprehending.

But since Bernard was the murderer….that makes the story brilliant. At first I thought you didn't know it, that you had slipped up. But it was on purpose. It had to be on purpose. Surely, at those high level conversations...with professors, and other authors--"

"No. You're the first person to realize, atleast the first person that's come forward."

"You didn't think anyone would ever---"

"Do I have a reason to?"

Mello considered this. It struck him, for the first time, that something was wrong with this conversation. Would not an author who'd hidden something in his novel be ecstatic to hear from the person who found it? Enthusiastic, at the very least…

What were the reasons why Yagami was being cautious right now instead of excited?

One: the person who ruined his assembly was now standing on his doorstep.

Two: said person currently looked like he'd been beaten within an inch of his life.

Three: It also happened to be 11 o' clock at night.

Maybe lack of excitement wasn't suspicious after all. Mello chewed his lip, frustrated that he'd spent so long being a normal student when he could have been studying the psychology that would lend him a hand right now. Of course, he'd already covered that frustration tonight.

* * *

As he walked down the street, little details that he never would have noticed yesterday flooded his senses. Any item with text was read and either deleted or filed away. Hell, even the colors were sharper.

Most noticeable was the way people's eyes flicked to meet his, as if attracted to something, only for them to widen slightly before focusing elsewhere. The Mello that was blind drew no attention whatsoever---thinking about himself, trudging through a thick sea of normality, with shoulders that should have been straight slumping and his once proud head bowed--- it made his lip curl in a fierce sneer.

There was no way you could overlook him now. Everything about him was intense. His features were infused with cunning; and when he opened the door to his aunt and uncle's house, they both exchanged looks after getting a glimpse of his face.

To their credit, they weren't bad people. It had been a surprise to Carla when she found that her sister and brother in law had left behind a son, and an even bigger surprise when all of a sudden, years afterwards, the orphanage was pressing them to take him in. They'd done so without hesitation, and had come to care about the troubled boy deeply, even if their affections were not returned.

But they both recalled the other time Mello had that look in his eyes. Even the roof hadn't escaped damage, and the next day Mello had come downstairs, asking dully why all the mirrors were shattered.

"Mello…are you okay?"

Mello ignored the tentative question and took the steps to his room two at a time. The adults sat tensely, listening for the sounds of a tantrum.

The room was fairly average--- posters depicting unwashed band members stared down from the dark walls. Clothes lay in heaps and the bed was unmade. His window was unable to open as the result of a broken lock---Mello knew his uncle was behind that.

As if Mello would ever jump out a window.

Then again. Maybe they knew him well enough to know that even if he didn't throw _himself_, he may throw other things out of it.

He stood in the very center of this room that was increasingly feeling more and more like enemy territory, a foreign area.

The things that he saw----the carefully shredded jeans, the algebra 1A textbook, the papers with words scrawled by an ignorant hand--- served only to make him angry. And he was getting angrier with every instant that he examined this stranger's room. No, not a stranger---_ his _room.

Mello felt a creeping distaste that was magnifying into horror. How many years had it been since he'd left? One, two…more?

How could he have been stupid for so long? Mello snarled at the person who'd been living in this room, wanting to step away from the mud of this situation before it tried to suck him in again, to trick him into thinking that _these _were his clothes and _that _was his bed and _this _was his life.

_It was a necessity, though. Those people at the program, they were doing terrible things to you, and you had to get back in the only way you could. _

Mello caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror as he spun around, and his eyes narrowed.

_You_, he thought. _You dragged me under before. _

_Brilliance is dangerous. It's better to be cold. Relax. This is what you want._

"Get the hell out, dammit!" Mello looked up; the clouds were threatening.

_Yes._

Mello could feel his own pleasure.

So he lashed out. He was slight, but the force of two and a half years of muted desperation was something to be reckoned with.

And when Mello's fist rushed up to meet his face, that apathetic and conniving bastard died with the fleeting paleness, while what was left plunged into the shadows.

* * *

He woke up twenty minutes later under the fading twilight; surveying his surroundings quickly before stealing down the stairs. He felt in sync with himself. That was good. It would take awhile before he was completely himself, but---

"Mello! Are you ok? We heard a crash. And your eye! What's happened?"

"I wonder how many times you asked him that, when it would have mattered," Mello mused.

"What? Are you feeling ok? You should lie down…"

Mello dragged his gaze to the middle aged woman.

"I'm feeling better than I have in two years, no thanks to you."

"Hey! Don't talk to your aunt that way!"

Mello glanced at the man who had stood up. He racked his brains, trying to think if these people were really his aunt and uncle…after a few seconds in which he applied some theories of genetics, the answer was no.

Thank god.

"…I'm gonna leave now."

"No, young man, you are _grounded_. And it's a school night, so don't even think about it."

"School? I'm done with that shit." The obscenity rolled off his tongue with ease.

"Mello!"

"That's enough, Carla. The boy's old enough to make his own decisions. If he wants to be that way, fine. But not under our roof."

Mello looked at the man's earnest, bluffing eyes, set deeply into a stern face. Mello knew that at this point he was supposed back down and apologize.

He laughed and strode out the door into the night with nothing but the clothes on his back.

* * *

"_Mr.Yagami, how does it feel to be the boy _Time _is calling 'the portrait of literary genius'?"_

"_I'm extremely flattered, though I would never call myself a genius."_

"_Don't be so modest! Isn't it true that you were the number one student in Japan your senior year? It's a proven fact, folks. You've scored over the genius mark on all your IQ tests, isn't that correct?" _

Light could feel a panic coursing through him as he looked at Mello. It took all his strength to suppress it and pretend that he had written Bernard as the actual killer on purpose.

The rest of his mind was, even now, going over those words, those words that had flowed so evenly.

Whenever could those words have splashed out of their context? He'd decided to make Ed the murderer by the time the second chapter had been written. It had been so goddamn perfect… knowing that that book was a masterpiece, knowing that it was brilliant in every way, that was what kept him going, what was convincing him all these months that another book would eventually come to him.

How many times had he turned down an opportunity with the suave reply, "I'm focused on my writing"?

"Don't you want to know?"

And now it was ruined, beyond ruined, it was bloody _gone, _ripped from his hands by this blond upstart who dared to even now stand before him.

Light didn't know if he'd ever been so angry in his life. There had been times---Sayu could be frustrating, his mother nagging, and his father, with his disappointment that Light had refused to work in his field----that was a particularly long story---when he'd been at odds. But nothing compared to this.

"Yagami? I said, don't you want to know?"

Light took in Mello's appearance. It was not lost to him that there was something distinctly different about him now. If Light had been feeling poetic, and not furious, he would say that the boy's innocence had been lost.

But Light never really felt poetic anyway. So he told himself what was closer to truth---the kid was somehow smarter now. And not a little bit smarter, either, but substantially.

The only thing that had calmed him at the assembly was the thought that the boy had been guessing.

There was no room for that theory in this person's face.

Light shifted uncomfortably.

* * *

Mello watched Light shift uncomfortably. This let Mello make three rapid observations:

The gesture was a nervous one.

Yagami Light was nervous or lying or both.

Yagami was lying about Bernard and nervous about it.

And that was….interesting. What was he afraid of, Mello running to the press? Of course, maybe he was. People like Yagami clung to their public image with all the tenacity they could muster.

What he needed to realize was that Mello could not benefit from blackmailing him.

Then again.

* * *

The night that Mello began blackmailing famous mystery novelist Yagami Light was a turning point in several people's lives.

The blackmail itself was far more trivial than it would have been if Mello had not succumbed and released his intelligence for nearly three years. This Mello had few violent tendencies and wasn't particularly vengeful or brutal. His thinking process was a great deal clearer because of this.

For his part, Light was faced with the dilemma of personal pride versus public pride, and instead of choosing decided that in the coming days he would discover a way to have both.

It was also on this night that a certain figure had perhaps an hour of free time and decided to enjoy a slice of cake at a café not far from his current housing. This last would not be worth mentioning, except for the fact that he happened to come across a novel that somebody had accidentally left there.

"Ah, so that's Soichiro's son," he mused after an hour, his cake untouched.


	4. Chapter 4

**a/n: Hi, welcome to chapter four! I assure you that I do not own Death Note. Sad but still a fact. I'm sorry that I took so long updating this! (And no, you're not hallucinating---it's actually here...)**

**Anyway, if you have any comments at all about this story, then please do leave a review! They make me happy...I hope you enjoy the chapter!**

* * *

It was morning, and the only sound was that of the birds outside and the pen strokes of Light as he sat writing---once again, like every other time this morning he'd gotten up to write---which was every fifteen minutes--- he was writing dialogue and character sketches. Dialogue being foremost.

The conversations. They were coming in waves, waves of striking yet simple exchanges that flowed together into an ocean that was getting grander by the moment. And yet, so far as he could tell, there was no plot. He could see the situations which were bringing the characters together, but not the _reason_ for these circumstances. He supposed….that it didn't matter----he was now convinced that it would come to him.

Leaning back in his chair, Light laced his fingers together only to invert them with a tug. The cracking of his fingers resounding went unnoticed by the birds and Light paused to take a sip of the coffee that rested near his elbow: black, no cream added. With no mother or sister to add sugar before he could utter a declination, it was a calming part of his morning.

As of this instant all he had were two characters. But they were so real, so solid, that he was certain they'd be center stage in the drama. Both personalities were stark---in his previous works he'd made sure to mix the personalities of his characters to make it believable.

He would have a passive character as a foil to every aggressor, but so far there were no passive tendencies anywhere in the plans he could feel his subconscious distantly compiling, and certainly none on paper. It made him feel that there were still vital characters lacking.

But that was okay. He was sure they'd step out from the shadows eventually, and even now ----if Light squinted---- he could see the next waiting to make his entrance. Strangely, he didn't think this hazy outline would result in a watered down character.

Quite the opposite, he thought, lifting the pen and launching into yet another sequence of lines.

It had been three in the morning when he woke from troubled dreams to dash downstairs and start scribbling descriptions with a hand fevered from excitement.

For that first hour, in the dead of night, he'd made sure to keep himself in check with the thought that this creative energy may not truly lead to a novel; it was probably a result from the stress of yesterday.

Yesterday, which had been singularly the worst day in his life. But for all that it was terrible---embarrassing----infuriating---it had also been a deviation from a daily routine that was depressing and, yes, strangling him at an alarming pace.

"And just when I thought I was getting bored---inspiration strikes."

Light didn't know exactly when he'd gotten into the habit of speaking aloud to himself. He had a feeling that it stemmed from the constant narration he'd keep in his head during school when he had nothing else to occupy himself with. Those days, he'd think about the strangest things.

He honestly didn't know what path those thoughts would have taken if he hadn't created the characters Bernard, Edward, and Alice in his head. It had been pretty touch and go, especially that particular afternoon…

Light shook his head violently. There was no need to think about that.

Everything he needed to concentrate on was directly in front of him.

….. Except for the problem that was currently sleeping in his guest room.

"_What _are you doing?"

Scratch that.

Light hated to look away from his writing for a few seconds, let alone bring himself to speak to what was undoubtedly the current root of his personal evil.

But it didn't look like he'd even get the opportunity to open his mouth, as Mello's words continued to plow through his brain.

"Hey! Don't ignore me when I'm talking to you, it's unflattering."

Without setting aside his characters, Light quickly assessed the best way to deal with this situation. What sort of reply should he make? Something efficient. No-nonsense. Was there an answer that said: 'you may be blackmailing me but you are a mere annoyance and should understand I am far above you?'

Some blackmail it was, too. Light had almost lost his balance after asking Mello what he wanted.

A place to stay was a very humble demand, after all---and probably explained why Light hadn't yet bothered sparing thought about it in lieu of his brainstorming.

"Would you like some coffee?"

"What?"

"It's in the kitchen. You've quit school so I confess I am starting to wonder what you're going to busy yourself with here."

Light had to admit that he was still feeling a tad hostile and partially inclined to violent action, so the words were acidic.

The blonde boy had a single hand pressed against the wall. Light noted that his eye was not looking well. It was still swollen and seemed to be changing colors. Purple on top, while a ghastly green was spreading on the bottom. Light wondered vaguely if his parents were abusive. That would give Mello a reason to want to stay with him. But something told him that this person would be quite equipped to handle an unfavorable domestic problem.

"I didn't tell you I quit school." Light noticed that Mello's voice was prone to taking radical twists in tone. It suggested mental instability, but the boy's reasoning abilities seemed to be top notch. More than that. With his intelligence, Mello shouldn't have been in public school. It shone so brilliantly that even the laziest teacher would have to notice it. When he thought about it, Mello was so bright that maybe he shouldn't have been in _any _school. And yet, Light remembered their first meeting in the hallway. Mello hadn't been the shining beacon before him now. Glowing, perhaps. Perhaps.

"And I didn't tell you that I was clueless about Bernard. Hang on a minute."

Light got up from his desk and walked stiffly into the kitchen. He didn't keep much food around---he had cereal, some fruit, milk, and coffee. Lately he'd been forgetting about meals. There was no reason for him to be reminded.

But Mello would probably be less and not more compliant if he thought Light was trying to starve him. So Light cut up some fruit and tossed it on a plate, but not before retrieving the ice pack he kept for emergencies in the freezer. He rounded the corner and threw it at Mello.

The action was both a kindness and a test of Mello's athletic ability. For some reason Light couldn't picture the ill tempered boy fumbling, and indeed he caught it easily, even muttering a quick thank you as he did.

Instead of returning to his desk, Light crossed the room and took a languid seat on the couch. He motioned for Mello to do the same, and after a moment that was half hesitation and half something Light couldn't place he did.

It was shaping up to be the strangest morning of Light's life. His blackmailer gingerly picked at the fruit on the plate as if he wanted to find something wrong with it but couldn't, occasionally making a face as he drank the coffee Light brought him.

He was wearing Light's best black turtleneck and a tight pair of dark jeans that Light was fairly sure Sayu had bought him as a gag gift.

And though he was miffed that this guy had gone through his closet, he had to admit there was something he liked about how confidently Mello moved in clothes that weren't his. It was exactly how Light would have acted in his place.

Only Light would never blackmail anybody.

His hair was still wet from the shower Light hadn't heard him take, framing his face in strands of gold hued amber. Light found long hair to be distasteful on a boy. He frowned slightly.

"Something the matter?" Mello caught Light staring at him.

"No. Are you okay with eating just fruit? I mean, you don't look particularly healthy…"

It was true. The close fitting clothes hid his frail form from a distance but up close Light suspected he was suffering from malnutrition. Anorexia was a strong possibility.

Then again, Light knew how much it annoyed him when people pressed him to eat more, so he refrained from continuing.

"Chocolate would be nice," Mello said, thoughtfully. He looked over at Light. "But you don't seem the type to have any."

Light shook his head. "I was thinking of something _good _for you." It struck the author that he sounded just like his sister. Good grief.

Mello's laugh was a great deal sharper than he was expecting.

"Aren't you mad at me? Don't you want to get rid of me? I'm forcing you to let me stay at your home in exchange for not telling everybody your novel is trash--"

"It's not trash," Light snapped. He was instantly surprised at himself.

"Of course it is, you wrote the ending wrong," Mello said lazily.

"I don't see why you care."

The blonde pushed the plate away and rested his feet on the glass table.

"I really don't. I just need a place to sleep. No one will ever think to look for me here."

"Who would look for _you_, Mihael Keehl?"

Light knew that the snide words were a mistake almost as soon as he'd formulated the response. Writing hadn't been the only thing he'd been doing at three in the morning, and it wasn't smart to let Mello know that Light knew more than he thought he did. It was actually pretty stupid.

Fame had done strange things to him.

* * *

"Hello? Yes, this is Soichiro. You've solved the case? Yes. Yes, I see. That's not what you're calling about? Then what---? Raito? No, I don't know where his _inspiration _comes from. No, I don't sound bitter to me, L. I support him fully. What? He's in London. Apparently writing. Don't ask me….have I? Of course I wanted him to join the police. He'd make a brilliant detective, I just know it…..what do you mean, 'you think so too?'Have you met? No, but you're _going _to? But we need you here! Oh….well, I guess so. If you're sure…you've been a great asset to us, L. Yes, I'll take care. You too. Goodbye."

* * *

**a/n: thanks for reading! **


	5. Chapter 5

**a/n: Hullo, this is chapter five of The Brilliance of What If! I do not own Deathnote, as a disclaimer. I am really very sorry this took me so long to update---I still don't know if I like this chapter. If you think it's crap, then please tell me! If you like it, then tell me that also, otherwise I won't know if I should change it or not. **

**

* * *

****Chapter Five**

From a very young age, Light Yagami had recognized and embraced the fact that he possessed an intellect to rival 95 percent of the population. The precocious child is egotistical, either beastly or secretive in nature, flaunting or hiding its charms until the time the child is an adult and has matured in respect to its gifts.

Light rather fancied that he'd skipped the whole "childish" aspect of the whole affair. He wasn't normally petty, wasn't normally rash or irrational in any way. He lived as if he had already attained the highest state of being.

Thus, his frustration at having given himself away at the drop of a hat was profound and dissatisfying to the point of extreme shock. He couldn't understand it and that is the thing that he found himself marveling over---not the action itself but the fact that he had no reason at hand to give for it, no way to rationalize it.

He was so busy mulling over this that he wasn't prepared for Mello's roundhouse kick.

It connected to his head with the stinging force that a bucket of ice water has upon a figure in repose, waking him from his thoughts even as he staggered backwards, nearly toppling over the table with its forgotten fruit.

Mello was staring at him with all the murder a teenager can muster. Obviously there had been a line containing his anger and Light had stepped over it with his carelessness.

He was reminded that even though he was willing to let Mello think he was in control, it was the novelist that was older, the novelist that was wiser, the novelist that had the situation in rein. Letting the kid play at blackmail was one thing. Assault was another.

"Calm down," Light said, and the tone of his voice made Mello pause.

But only for a second.

Very quickly Light found himself cursing his inattentiveness to his morning workouts.

* * *

It was through a careless decision that a young man who called himself Matt---sometimes--- awoke in the middle of shrubbery outside a high class apartment complex.

He didn't know for sure that it was apartments, since this place was grander by far than the two room affair he called home. But he _did_ know for sure that this was London, and so apartments was his best guess.

Matt shifted his weight with the a wince: A wave of pain tore through his head as he fought to sit upright, knowing that it was one thing to collapse in the nearest soft secluded spot while in a drunken stupor and another entirely to linger there. Matt had never been arrested for this sort of thing, but he hadn't noticed last night (or much earlier that morning) that this place was much classier than all the other places he'd found his way to.

Admittedly, this was not saying much, not much at all.

But he didn't want to terrify some lady trying to retrieve her newspaper into calling the cops, so he dragged his sore body to a position that someone might perhaps mistake for a standing one, and moved carefully, noting that there was a large window not far above his head. There were people there, he could tell, two of them. So far they hadn't noticed him, and Matt squinted to better see what was going on.

It just so happened that he witnessed some blonde chick deck her boyfriend.

Matt watched, previous mission forgotten now that his interest was piqued. Through the window the blonde was now shouting something. She lunged forward and grabbed the boyfriend, shaking him thoroughly. From the way her lips moved over and over in the same pattern, Matt guessed she was asking a question. He wished he could read her lips, because whatever it was seemed intense.

Watching closely, Matt decided that for a chick, there was something distinctly masculine about her. It was interesting.

Entranced, his eyes followed her as she began a soundless tirade, waving her hands as she spoke with a furious expression.

He wanted to stay and watch longer, especially since the boyfriend had rolled to his feet and pinned the girl to the opposite wall.

But someone's front door had opened and a surprised shriek ripped through the previously calm early morning air. The woman was staring at Matt, stricken.

A younger Matt would have smiled and called out that the only thing scary was her bathrobe, but a year of living on his own as a freelance poet had changed him in ways he wouldn't have guessed. It served him right, he guessed, for leaving.

She probably thought he was a robber. Or worse. Matt couldn't blame her either way. He knew he must look like a thing that fought its way out of hell, just like every other morning---wild red hair the color of rust tangled in front of his eyes, which were bloodshot from keeping awake until ungodly hours, pale long fingered hands covered in grime attempted to undo the knots so he could see properly.

He heard the noise of plastic on plastic and pulled himself together:

Just as the window above opened he hightailed it down an adjacent alley, smartly giving the woman a faux salute, intent on nothing but breakfast and aspirin. (Nearly synonymous, now.)

* * *

"What the hell?" Mello stopped his attack to run over to the window at the sound of a scream.

Light nursed a black eye. His reflexes weren't up to par and the smaller boy had taken full advantage of it, easily escaping even after Light had the upper hand.

"That looked almost like…someone. I can't remember who it was."

Light watched Mello chew his lip in frustration. He seemed to have gotten over his anger, and Light carefully put a hand on his shoulder, taking a few deep breaths. He needed to keep his tone civil now, keep the kid calm. (Though he realized now that calling him 'kid' in his head was only serving to underestimate him. How many times had his father warned against things of that nature?)

"Mello--"

"Shut up." He shrugged Light's hand off viciously.

That worked well, Light thought sourly, wondering why he was even bothering with this when his writing was lying on his desk, when his will to write was growing cold with neglect.

"Mihael?" He tried tentatively.

Mello turned to face him

Light winced when he realized he'd given him a double black eye. The new bruise was flooding over the old one, a fusion of damaged veins. He was all eyes, Light noticed, his thin mouth twisted into a grimace beneath a small nose. They caught the light from the open window, throwing it back into the novelist's face just like the punches they were throwing a moment ago. He wondered why he'd thought they were blue before. They seemed green now.

"My name is of little concern to you. Who would come looking for Mihael? No one, Yagami-_san. _I suggest you worry about your reputation and leave me alone."

"Don't be so formal, it's….what did you say? Unflattering. As is your insinuation that all I care about is my name."

"It _is_ all you care about."

"That's not--"

"True? Of course it is."

"Don't be stupid. I care about my writing."

"Don't be stupid? Well, I'll try not to, but I'm not making any promises. If you cared one iota about your writing, you would have never consented to blackmail. You would have wanted people to know the truth about your novel. You're so worried that people will think less of you that it hasn't even _occurred _to you they might think more. Your writing is an excuse."

"An excuse for what?"

"I don't know. Something. If you could only see your face!"

Just as Light was about to return Mello the favor of a kick to the head, the doorbell rang.

Mello looked at Light.

"Did you call the cops?"

"Do I look stupid?"

Mello didn't answer immediately. "Hurry up and answer it. It's probably nothing, then."

Light aimed a suspicious look at Mello. "Did _you _call anyone?"

"Do _I _look stupid?"

"A little deranged, but highly intelligent."

"Thank you. Yagami?"

"Yes?"

"Get the fucking door."

* * *

**I really hope this wasn't too painful to read. This chapter focuses more on subtleties than real detail---Light and Mello establishing a relationship that doesn't dissolve into violence, Matt being in the general vicinity right before a stranger comes knocking, the reasons why Light hasn't kicked Mello out...etc. Also the introduction of real profanity. The real story here will begin when all the characters are in place...but I'm rambling now. **


	6. Chapter 6

**a/n: Hi there, and welcome to chapter six of the Brilliance of What If! I'd like to thank each and every person who reviewed this story, it always, always, makes my day whenever someone comments on my work. I think this is one of my absolute favorite chapters so far, and I hope you guys enjoy reading it. **

**As a disclaimer I, (however sadly) do not own Death note. **

* * *

**Chapter Six**

"Near? What are you doing?" A girl----more of a young woman, really, stepped softly into the doorway that was at the end of the hall.

To the boy who was sitting on the rug in the middle of the room, staring at the typewriter, her silhouette cast a familiar shadow.

He tugged on a lock of his snowy white hair. It was a very uncommon color for a fifteen year old boy, but his demeanor outshone its oddness.

He waved a pale, nearly translucent hand. It was a vague wave and Linda knew that Near wasn't really inclined to answer her.

"I just wanted to say that dinner is getting cold downstairs." She checked a sigh. "And you shouldn't sit here in the dark like this, it will ruin your eyes." She flipped the lights on, and the room blazed into a golden color.

"I was just thinking," Near said in way of apology. He would never understand Linda's obsession with his welfare. He could take care of himself perfectly well, she should focus on herself.

"What were you thinking about?" Linda asked, taking the liberty of walking inside his room. She made sure to not step on any of the knickknacks Near kept scattered on the floor. ( Despite, or perhaps in spite of, all her protests and secret attempts to keep them organized elsewhere. She'd been at it for months, after a visitor had ended up with a sharp piece of plastic buried in their foot. She highly suspected that Near was treating the issue like a game, waiting for her to make her move before putting everything back the way it was. (She liked to think that it made him happy to do so.))

"Literature. According to the New York Times, mystery novels are making a comeback. The most popular out of these is written by a Japanese author."

"I didn't know you were that interested in fiction. Normally you just read encyclopedias and textbooks." Linda kept her voice light.

"Normally….I'm writing a book, Linda." He glanced at the typewriter.

"You are? Can---oh, please, can I read it, Near?" Linda swiftly crossed the room, looking for the beginnings of a manuscript, looking for a sheet of paper that wasn't perfectly blank.

After a few moments she stopped looking. "Is it….on a disk somewhere?" She said, fighting to keep the excitement from quavering.

"Nope….." Near grinned up at her in an unusual display of affection, tapping his head with one finger. "It's all up here."

* * *

"Watari. It's good to see you in person." The detective smiled at him from the doorstep, his tone just as comfortable as if he hadn't spent the last eight months on the other side of the world.

"L….I didn't know you were in London. You're looking well."

"I arrived about an hour ago. Thank you, you seem well too."

"An hour ago?"

"Ah….yes. I had somewhere to go first."

"You seem…..harried, sir."

The young man stared at his old friend for a split second before throwing his head back in an uncharacteristic laugh.

"I guess you could say that….yes, perhaps that is the word for it. I'm sure you might have an idea of whom I visited."

The aged gentleman took his guest's coat, ushering him to have a seat in the parlor while he hung it up and called for tea to be made.

L waited, observing the bay window that looked out over a green expanse of lawn where young children kicked around a soccer ball, stood and talked, or simply read in the shade of a tree.

"I really couldn't guess," Watari continued their conversation, graciously shoving the sugar bowl in L's direction.

"Then I won't make you. It was Yagami Light. I was working with his father in Japan when I happened across one of his novels." He declared blandly.

"Is that so? He's a fascinating young man. I had the opportunity of listening to him speak at the highschool."

"Highschool?" L frowned over his cup of tea.

"Yes. You understand that I wanted to keep an eye on young Mihael, even if he no longer resides here." Watari's eyes grew cloudy upon thinking of the boy, so clever, who had been dropped from their program after what he was sure was a misunderstanding on Roger's---the official head of that particular orphanage---part.

"Ah, the one who called himself Mello."

"Yes. I still think about it, and how it's such a shame. He really was brilliant, you know. But after his honor was called into question, he just didn't function in the same manner…." His voice trailed off as he remembered the shock with which he'd regard Mello in the hallways of the public school. "And….well, as of two days ago, he's been expelled. I do hope he'll be all right."

Watari watched as L dropped his seventh sugar cube into his earl grey with the faintest of splashes. He could have sworn the young detective was wearing the ghost of a smile.

"I have a feeling he'll be fine," L commented.

"You know I'm dying to hear about your travels," Watari said, and the conversation turned to the latest batch of solved mysteries that L was so famous for leaving in his wake.

* * *

"Don't talk to me like that!" Light snapped.

The only reaction he got from Mello was a raised eyebrow.

Light swore that he would not let this behavioral pattern continue before striding across the rug and yanking open the door, composing his features well within the time it took.

"Hello? May I help you? I'm…." Light's voice trailed off. Dimly he heard a sharp gasp from the living room, and the noise of falling porcelain as Mello knocked the lamp his mother had given him off the table.

"Good morning, Yagami san. My name is Adam North. May I come in?"

"I…" It took all of three seconds for Light to regain composure. During those seconds his eyes brushed the man---a tangle of raven colored hair and charcoal eyes with a complexion to rival a vampire's, and Light had to tear his eyes away from the oddity--- "But of course, Mr. North. It's a pleasure to meet you, but might I inquire about the occasion….?"

"I'd like to schedule. An interview. To talk about your book, _At Midnight. _I understand you're quite used to them?"

"Ah, yes, I am. I'm sorry for my surprise, it's just that I don't often get such offers these days." Light leaned against the doorway. Obviously Mello was mentally distressed by the man's presence, and just when Light had had him calmed down….

"Is that so? I find that difficult to believe. Your writing style fascinates me, and I am particularly fascinated when I think of what the thought process of such an author must entail…"

Light paled as he heard choked laughter coming from behind him.

"Am I interrupting something? Perhaps I should come back…"

"No!" Light rushed. He cursed himself for speaking hastily. "You're not interrupting anything. That's my roommate. He's quite noisy," He smoothed over the man's hesitation.

"You have a roommate?"

"Yes, that's what I said."

"Oh. It just struck me as odd, what with what your income must be, I wouldn't think you'd have a reason…." Mr. North's voice trailed off innocently. He peered curiously over Light's shoulder----the man was about his height----and Light noticed with piqued interest that his eyes----large and dark---- widened slightly when he caught a glimpse of Mello.

His interest was piqued further when he saw the expression on Mello's face, right before he dashed madly for the stairs.

"I'm open all week," Light said weakly, trying to act nonchalant as he pulled a pocketbook out.

"Excellent. How does this Thursday at four sound? Are you opposed to meeting at a restaurant?"

"That sounds fine, Mr. North."

"Good. Yagami-san?"

"Yes?"

"Would you be opposed to bringing your roommate?"

Light analyzed the man in front of him, this time not caring about how hard or intense his stare may be perceived. The man's use of the honorific was sincere, unlike Mello's usage. He appeared to be a literary critic from his speech, but Light had never seen one that looked like this. It was possible, Light supposed, that the man had a more "modern" edge, which might explain his request for the roommate to come---possibly he wanted to interview Light about his personal life?

Wasn't that far too…..well, _personal _for a literary critic? He could see a journalist being perfectly justified in the request, but….

But maybe he was neither.

Actually, thinking about it, Light was convinced he was neither. Normally such persons contacted him through email, and if they didn't, then the person they scheduled with was his agent. (A useless woman by name of Takada. Well, Light supposed she wasn't entirely useless. She had been helpful back when he was extremely popular and went ahead and broadcasted his answers to questions the public aimed at him.)

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to offend you," Mr. North began. (Light was at odds with his age. His manner of speech indicated that he was older than Light, but everything else said that this person couldn't possibly be a day over twenty.)

If he wasn't legit, then what was he?

"Oh, not at all. I was just thinking that that would depend on his schedule and whether or not he'd be inclined to come."

Maybe he was a stalker. Light had heard stories about frenzied fans, he'd even been warned about them by his publisher.

"Oh, well in that case, whatever suits your…friend…is fine with me."

If he was a stalker, though, one might assume that he would attempt to schedule an interview in a private place, not an open area such as a restaurant.

"Excellent."

Maybe he wasn't a very clever stalker? No, that clashed horribly with the intelligence that was practically sparking in the man's eyes.

"Excellent," Mr. North echoed. He smiled vaguely---Light was tempted to say it was more of a smirk, but there wasn't really enough emotion there to call it either---and walked away, turning with a fluid motion.

"Mello," Light called, standing in the doorway. He watched Mr. North until he turned around the corner.

He heard a funny noise---there was no other word for it, really---and turned around, tugging the door closed behind him.

He found Mello sitting halfway up the stairs, limbs akimbo, eyes unnaturally bright.

"Are….you okay?" Light said awkwardly from the landing.

Mello's left eye twitched and the corner of his mouth pulled down in a short sneer.

"I'm fine, _roommate."_

It was Light's turn to raise an eyebrow. He folded his arms, looking up at his blond blackmailer.

"Don't tell me you're upset about _that." _He couldn't help but keep the taunting lilt out of his voice, and inwardly marveled at the lapses he was making around Mello.

"No. I'm upset about a great many things, Yagami, the _least _of which is your familiar tone."

"You're pouting," Light laughed. ( Mentally. God knew he was still worn out from their earlier battle and wasn't inclined to start one anew.)

"Go the fuck away. Do whatever it is you do." Mello snarled, shoving his bangs back in a haughty display that reminded Light terribly of Sayu when she was pissed. ( A rare occasion, but when it happened Light never had a moment of peace.)

It brought a smile to his lips.

"Stop that," Mello snapped in ill concealed irritation. "I'm trying to think."

Light knew of dozens of responses that could be made in that particular interval. But none of them would really insure his heretofore good health.

Instead he said, "Well, if you don't mind, I've got writing to do."

Mello gaped at him. "You mean you're not worried about….Mr. North? Didn't he seem suspicious to you?"

Now _that _was interesting, Light thought. "Not at all," he lied easily. "I used to attend such interviews three times a week."

Mello looked at him. "Don't lie to me, Yagami, it makes things boring."

"I'm not lying," Light said mildly.

"Whatever. I don't really care." Mello fixed his gaze on the wall. It was another Sayuesque action.

"Neither do I."

"Fine."

"All right."

"Go to hell, then!" Mello broke the pseudo casual rhythm, and Light returned to his desk, fully intent upon his new novel, and researching the strange Adam North.

(And wondering whether Mello would truly remain sour faced on the stairs, much like an angry fixed gargoyle.)

* * *

"Crash!

A bolt of lightning in the form of a delicate hand

Severing his heart from the conviction of mortality

Only to lift him up into the serene green sea

Of her gaze, the center of a raging storm

That is calm

Tranquility

Twenty minutes later

When his eyes flutter open

She is gone

And so his wallet."

Matt looked at his publisher hopefully. The rotund, pasty colored man stared at him---in the space of a few hours the ragtag poet had produced twenty such poems, all radically different from his previous style---a sort of raging against the world type deal. But this….this was fresh, this was a fantastically realistic meshing of styles.

"Well, I think it's wonderful, kid. If you can keep cranking these out, I can almost guarantee you a spot in our modern anthology---maybe even your own book. But you've got to tell me---why are they all featuring this blonde girl?"

He looked at Matt. The young man had a quirky smile gracing his normally haggard features.

"I think I'm in love," he answered simply.

* * *

**a/n: Thank you for reading, and if you've got anything to say about the story, then please go ahead and leave a review! **


	7. Chapter 7

**a/n: I'm really sorry this took me so long to update! Those of you who read my KH work know that I worked like crazy on two super long chapters...it's been a month and a day since I updated this. Ugh. See? I'm disgusted with _myself. _**

**Anyway. Chapter Seven! It's not very polished, but since I haven't updated...I figure I'll make it prettier later. Unless you think it's okay as is. Tell me what you think!**

**Death Note is of course the property of Tsugumi Ohba and Takeshi Obata. **

* * *

**Chapter Seven**

Light sat down at his desk with the air of one whom is getting reacquainted with a long lost friend. He would have loved to be sitting down to his writing, but since Thursday was looming he knew that it was time to start researching the peculiar man who'd come to call the day before.

Peculiar? The word wasn't a very good description, really, of the man who looked, for some reason he couldn't fathom, so strange in the charcoal business suit, so unfamiliar with his own straight---intimidating---no, imposing---posture.

There had been something there, something that wasn't confined to the man's enigmatic smile or his expressive eyes that left Light utterly unconvinced of his identity.

"Aren't you worried?" Mello had asked when they sat facing each other last night, each picking at the chicken salad Light had thrown together---courtesy of his mother's recipe and his sister's coaching---with something akin to distaste.

Light had wanted to reply with something that emphasized the fact that the one he should be worried about was the one who kept raiding his clothes and threatening him with defamation.

Not wanting to reenact that morning's scuffle, or worse, provoke Mello to do exactly what he was threatening, Light had answered with a calm, "I already told you, there's no reason for me to worry. I'm sure he's harmless."

At that point Mello threw his fork halfway across the room and stomped up the stairs.

Which was, really, intriguing. It would be oversimplifying to say that Light wasn't stupid. Light had one of the best, brightest, and fastest minds in the world. He'd taught himself to read before he could tie his shoelaces, and could outsmart most adults with his flawless logic by the time he was in fifth grade.

By the time he was in twelfth, no one else really stood a chance, though soon after he was working on _At Midnight _and for a great deal of time, forgot about normal life in general in lieu of the joy writing and creating brought him.

This may be reiterating, but it leads to a simple truth---analyzing Mello's behavior (or atleast this example of it, Mello was by all means a mystery on other counts) was child's play: the boy obviously had some sort of contact with Mr. North in the past, and since he was pretty sure that Mello was not a published author, Mr. North's explanation of being a literary critic was not holding up. (Not that he had ever called himself such.)

Even more obvious was that this contact was not positive. Or if it was, he believed Light was going to be in over his head. Or something to that effect. Was he trying to help him? Light reflected over the boy's behavior---they hadn't spoken yet this morning, Light assumed he was still sleeping (in Light's bed? He really had no idea, Light hadn't been upstairs to do more than change clothes ever since Mello had started blackmailing him---what, three days ago?).

The whole situation was downright bizarre.

_I am a popular author. After going to speak to a public highschool an unusually gifted boy started blackmailing me---he doesn't go to the press with the news that my greatest work has a major flaw in its execution (that I wasn't even aware of) in exchange for a place to stay. The next day I get a visit from a strange man who seems connected to my blackmailer even though there is no visible connection between the two. Now my blackmailer is acting even stranger and (almost) seems to be warning me…_

Dear god, it sounded like a mystery novel. All that was missing was a couple of dead bodies.

At which point Light Yagami paused in opening his laptop and instead reached for his pen.

* * *

There were some things that Mello had vowed he would never remember. Stripping himself of…well, himself, had certainly served its purpose in that there were quite a few holes in his memory. 

But ever since he'd read _At Midnight, _ever since he'd awakened, he was starting to remember.

He remembered the incident that had led him to his decision, he remembered the people involved. Or rather, the person. The person whose face was starting to enter his mind again as he sat in Yagami's chair and listened to the sound of Yagami writing.

And he remembered the people who _weren't _involved in the incident, the ones who Mello had wished were there, because he was sure if only they were, things would not have turned out the way they had.

Yes. Mello sat, staring at the blank wall, plotting and thinking.

There were some things that Mello had vowed to never remember.

L Lawliet was one of them.

Every memory Mello had of the man had swept through his consciousness like a dirt devil sweeps the leaves from the streets in autumn---violently and without consideration--- upon seeing that face again.

Admittedly, Mello hadn't ever seen much of him---but the orphanage had been chock full of rumors about the greatest detective to ever walk the earth, the man who hid behind countless aliases and moved through the highest levels of governments around the world like a shadow.

The greatest detective ever. Mello suppressed a shudder. Had he read Yagami's writing? No shit. Had he realized why Mello was there? Did he even know what had happened to Mello, the no good second best cheater? Well, if he'd visited his "home" then he certainly did. What if L turned him in?

Something in Mello tightened.

So what if he did? Mello had beaten _himself, _for crissakes.

Beating anyone else---even the so called greatest detective ever---would be a holiday in comparison.

Although, Mello thought with a sneer, things might get difficult if Yagami persisted in his fake nonchalance.

No, no. Mello shook his head furiously. He was thinking like a child---L Lawliet didn't spend his time arresting wayward orphans. Even if said orphan had one of the highest IQ's to be found. In fact, Mello was almost certain L had smiled at him, right before taking his leave.

But what was he after? Why would he spend his time chatting with some Japanese author?

Maybe this was L's idea of vacation?

L didn't _go_ on vacations, so far as he knew.

In any case, if Light---Yagami, Mello corrected himself---was expecting an amicable chat on Thursday, he was seriously mistaken.

It didn't really matter, he supposed. L wasn't the reason he was blackmailing Light Yagami. L wasn't the reason he'd spent the past two days trying to think of ways to get back at the person who'd put him in his predicament.

A purpose whose nobility was starting to lose its shine. In retrospect---it probably wasn't the other boy's fault. Hate him he may, but… Revenge for its own sake had lost its appeal somewhere on the way between the thought and his plans.

Which left the real question of: what exactly was he doing here? The same question that he'd thought upon standing in his old room. The same question he'd thought when they brought him to the orphanage.

Mello could think of a hundred maybes.

Maybe his life was one mistake after another.

Maybe it was the only darkness making him feel pensive.

Either way, Mello was tired of staring at the wall. He pulled up the collar of his shirt---it kept slipping over his shoulder. Yagami had broader shoulders than he did, that was for sure---and retreated down the stairs.

* * *

Linda carefully stuck her head around the corner of the door that led to Near's room, curling one slender hand around the edge, biting her lip in the vain hope that maybe he wasn't sitting in the dark, that maybe he was playing outside or had gone out to the movies or…she opened her eyes and was met with the usual sad disappointment. 

He was sitting on the carpet like he always was: facing the old typewriter that he'd seemed so intent upon dragging upstairs.

Linda hadn't had a very good past few days. She'd been so happy when Near expressed interest in something other than his studies, that she'd dropped everything to look in on him every few minutes. She'd been hoping to catch him at writing, or reading, or _something. _

She didn't understand. Oh, she wanted to. She wanted to understand Near, but she knew she wasn't nearly smart enough to. What was it that made him so special to her? It might have been his innocence. Fleeting but apparent, that's how it was to her.

It seemed that those qualities were starting to apply to her hopes, but she tried not to think about it. Instead she lost herself in her own studies, in her other friends, in her ambitions---of which she had few. But it always came back to Near. She couldn't stop herself from caring about him.

What _was _it about him?

And _what _was that noise?

Noise?

As if by some unearthly que, Near's hands lifted from his sides to strike the keys of the typewriter in a relentlessly sharp tempo. His shoulders rose and fell with the motions. His eyes were strikingly clear in the dimness, following the bold words that ran across the page with an intensity normally reserved for equations or puzzles or problems.

He almost turned his head to almost smile at her. It was a marvel of their communication that she knew he knew she was there, and that he was happy she was watching.

And Linda watched from the doorway, unable to stop the stupid grin that was melting across her sweet features.

She was perfectly content to watch from a distance in peaceful silence.

"You can come in if you want," Near offered softly.

Ah. _That_ was what it was about him.

* * *

Mello ended up staying on the stairs. He had an excellent view of Yagami's profile, bent mere inches away from the scraps of paper he kept striking with a much abused pen. 

He wouldn't have said that Yagami was different when he was writing. It was more that all the details that seemed to constitute the author were thrown into a spectacular light that sharpened and exemplified them.

And after Mello had basically screamed at him to dig around Mr. North. What an incorrigible man.Who knew, Mello reflected. Who knew what someone with his mind was capable of. And there he was, writing fiction.

"Are you staring at me for a particular reason?" Mello looked down. Light was twisted in his chair, staring at the younger blond.

"No particular reason," Mello confessed and descended the steps, walking across the room.

"I suppose it's too much for me to ask what you've been doing upstairs."

Light watched Mello's eyes brush the papers with a face devoid of his perpetual anger.

"Thinking," He answered shortly, reaching for one of the sheets. "May I?" He asked.

"I'd rather you didn't," Light said bluntly. "But I'm not really in a position to stop you, am I?"

Emotion flickered back into the boy's face in the form of a swift grin.

"Damn straight you're not. But I've changed my mind." He handed Light the piece of paper.

"You really _don't _like my writing, do you?"

"I have no reason to like anything."

"I find that hard to believe."

"I'm not asking you to believe me."

"Then what _are _you asking?" Light pounded the desk with his fist, the words laced with frustration.

"I like your writing," Mello said quietly.

"I---thank you."

"You look like you'd rather strangle me than thank me, Yagami," he said pointedly.

Light exhaled. "You can't seriously blame me."

"You don't take me seriously anyway." It wasn't a question. Mello wasn't expecting an answer.

"That's true. You're immature and impetuous. You _obviously _act before you think, because whatever plan you had in mind either isn't working or isn't relevant. You have an inconsistently aggressive personality. It's like you're copping out on your own--"

Light paused to take a breath, and Mello seized the opportunity to lunge after the author. His weight was enough to knock both Light and the chair over. The blond gripped Light's shirt collar, raising his fist---but then Light's feet were kicking up and out, catching him directly beneath the chest and flipping him over the chair.

Mello found himself panting and twisting under Light---whose face was flushed with the exertion of forcing Mello down.

"Fuck you!" Mello spat, realizing that Light wasn't going to stupidly relinquish his upper hand.

"That's—hardly polite," Light managed. Thank god he was heavier than Mello. "Quit squirming!" He snapped.

"Let me up. Let me up _right fucking now. _Or tomorrow morning your name is going to be on the front page, I fucking promise you."

"Somehow, I'm not inclined to believe your promises. And if I let you up then you're going to start in on me, and quite frankly, Mihael, I'm not in the mood. One black eye is sufficient for me, thanks," Light sneered. "And just when we were starting a civil conversation."

Mello glared balefully. "Let me up."

"No way in hell."

"You have to do it sometime."

"Not until you've calmed down, I don't."

"I _am _calm," Mello snarled furiously.

Light stared at him. A choked laugh escaped his constricted throat. He rolled off the other boy, who immediately leapt to his feet, prepared to start his vicious attack anew---

Light remained sitting on the floor, face in hands.

Laughing.

Mello's fists dropped to his sides. He stared in undisguised consternation.

"What?" Light looked up. His chestnut eyes were shining. Something caught in Mello's throat.

"If you think that's funny, you need to fucking get out more."

* * *

One day I met the sky 

Atop a green green hill

Where pink pink flowers grew

And purple purple birds flew.

The next day I met a stranger

Under a blue, blue sky

Next to grey grey people

With grey grey eyes.

I never knew the names

Of the sky or the stranger.

But when I see such vivid colors

In your dark deep eyes

All thoughts are gone of others

All thoughts are gone of skies.

Matt reread the poem only once before donning his customary striped shirt and worn vest and facing another day in which he was sure he would not run into his golden haired muse.

* * *

**a/n: Wah!! Nothing happened, I know. Mello and Light interaction wins in this chapter. Next chapter we have Light and Mr.North's "interview," and the introduction of more--omg---plot. **

**Which reminds me. You guys know my annoying summary in which it states, "summary will be longer as plot is revealed?" Yes. Well, does anybody have any suggestions? deadpans. Or maybe that should wait until next chapter...(plot starts in chapter eight? I'm a horrible person.) **

**I think every chapter will include a poem about Mello by Matt...I really am sorry for subjecting you to my shoddy poetry. **

**Anyway, I'm so grateful to you readers, and I love to know what you're thinking! Don't be shy, leave me a review. **


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